


Cold

by sparky955



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Family Member Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparky955/pseuds/sparky955
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think you're prepared for the death of a parent, but you never are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

‘Lieutenant Kuryakin, we regret to inform you…’

Cold.

I remember how cold it was on my third birthday. I have read that it is unusual for an adult to have vivid recollections that far back into their childhood. Napoleon teases me that I remember the journey through my mother’s birth canal It was cold, though. I remember the feeling of being bundled in layers and layers and layers of lavender-smelling clothing and quilts. Then, I remember Mama carrying me outside into the crisp daylight with snow glistening on every surface like faceted diamonds. I remember hearing Mama laugh as she held me close and twirled us both around and around. “Today, my little one, today I dance with you to thank our Lord for the miracle of your birth!”

Cold.

Mr. Waverly looked more lined and weary than usual as Napoleon and I entered his office. The two of us were still operating on the adrenaline high that the completion of a successful mission brings. We were debating the merits of ordering takeout Thai versus Indian when the look in Mr. Waverly’s eyes brought us up cold. Napoleon stopped first, so suddenly that I collided into his back.

“Mr. Kuryakin, I sincerely regret being unable to break the communications blackout to relay this sad news to you as soon as we…”

Cold.

I felt Napoleon surreptitiously take my hand, reaching behind himself as we stood in Mr. Waverly’s office, the positioning of his body in front of mine preventing the action from being observed. I felt the pressure of his hard squeeze and felt the rough momentary dragging of his callused fingers against mine. I heard the words automatically come from my mouth, although surely my mind was not processing adequately enough to generate the thoughts.

"Certainly, sir. The successful completion of our mission was, of course, the only appropriate course of action. Thank you for your concern, however, my mother will…would…understand.”

Cold.

Mama. Did you know? Did I tell you enough, did I show you enough that I loved you? Did you understand why I left for schooling in France, then England? Did you really understand why I wanted to join UNCLE? You told me that you did, but did you? Did you? Mama. I love you, Mama. I love you, I love you. Mama. I’m afraid, Mama. Afraid.

Cold.

It appears that the abrupt verbal presentation of emotionally-charged personal information does indeed affect one’s short term memory. I don’t remember leaving Mr. Waverly’s office. I don’t remember returning to our office to gather our coats. I don’t remember leaving through Del’s and sitting in the car as Napoleon drove us from the Command. I remember thanking Mr. Waverly, then my next awareness was sitting on Napoleon’s living room couch and him curling my fingers around a glass.

“Drink. Illya. Drink this.”

Cold.

Vodka is an interesting liquid. I am endlessly impressed in how just in a few seconds it changes from the sensation of cold to the sensation of burning. I remember Mama dipping her finger in what surely was vodka and gently rubbing it over a sore gum straining under the eruption of a new tooth in my mouth. “Sha, my little one, sha. Mama will make it better.”

Cold.

I felt the change in pressure as Napoleon sat next to me on the couch. I felt the warmth of his arm surrounding my shoulders, the strength of his hand guiding my head to his shoulder. I felt him slowly, very slowly, rock us both side to side. I heard these words, but more importantly, I comprehended these words.

“Я люблю тебе, я вас, ви не самотні, ви ніколи не будете одні, я люблю тебе, Ілля, я тебе люблю. Я буду піклуватися про тебе, в даний час. Я тут, я тут. Ви не самотні, це не так."

“I love you, I have you, you're not alone, you'll never be alone, I love you, Illya, I love you. I'm going to take care of you, now. I'm here, I'm right here. You're not alone, you're not.”

Cold.

But not alone.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of a ringing phone. A phone, not a communicator. Odd. Of course, since I had absolutely no memory of leaving the couch last night, walking to our bedroom, being undressed by Napoleon, being drawn into bed by Napoleon with Napoleon, I wasn’t surprised that I found the ringing of a telephone odd. As I remained in bed with my eyes closed, I heard the murmuring tones of Napoleon’s voice. Another oddity. His voice so often evokes in me the sense memory of my mother’s voice quietly singing me to sleep each night. Safe. Loved. Mama.

Cold.

But not alone. 

The smell of very strong Russian black tea invaded my thoughts. I opened my eyes to the sight of my partner, setting a glass of tea on the night stand.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Scrambled or omelet.”

“Napoleon, I’m not ---“

“Do not even go there, my eating machine. If I have to tie you to the chair, which under other circumstances could be a nice way to start the morning, and spoon feed you, you are going to eat something. So, again, scrambled or omelet?”

“Scrambled.”

“Drink your tea before it gets cold.”

I sat up, once again impressed that Napoleon remembered to use a metal tea holder for the glass. I can still see his raised eyebrows as I explained the necessity of men not using teacups. He may still not understand the custom, but for me, he observes it. Although the tea burned my tongue, it also soothed my heart a small amount as I sipped it. Not alone. I remember lying in bed, listening to the sounds of my mother preparing breakfast. I remember the aroma of bread toasting on the grille and the ubiquitous porridge plopping as it thickened on the stove. Those smells meant love and safety and normalcy to me, as the sounds of cabinets opening and closing, Napoleon swearing as he endeavors to locate the correct skillet and the correct whisk, and his only slightly off key singing along with the always on key Frank Sinatra album mean to me now.

Not alone.

“Hey, bacon or sausage?

Not cold, anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story soon after the sudden death of my brother who was the last of my family and whose death was completely unexpected. I think I was trying to give Illya the physical comfort that I didn't have that day.


End file.
